


Fire & Water

by ProcrastinatingSab



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Burning, Burns, Drowning, Gen, He does not die I promise :D, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Restraints, Torture, Whump, kidnapping.... again.. :P, this is darker than my usual fics!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/pseuds/ProcrastinatingSab
Summary: It was not related to any case they worked. It was not related to his father either. The guy doesn't even know his name.Malcolm was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when he was taken. Will anyone find him in time?
Comments: 82
Kudos: 144





	1. Water

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a flash fic with the Prompt "gulp" given by the wonderful Jameena!  
> Then the amazing people on discord encouraged me to have a full-length one and so this fic was born. 
> 
> Please be warned that it will be a bit darker than my previous work. It was a challenge that I am enjoying so far! My love for the discord peeps, this is for you all <3
> 
> Buckle up!!

**Water**

Malcolm couldn’t sleep. He tried and tried and tried and tossed and turned then gave up. It was one of those nights where sleep just wouldn’t come. So he put on his shoes, took his phone and keys, and went out. 

Wandering the streets at night was therapeutic, calming even. Sometimes he walked the stress off, strolling around the city; other times, he jogged leisurely to get his adrenaline pumping. Today he was running, trying to outrace his mind, and drown the cacophony of abuse it kept throwing his way. 

After some time, he slowed down and stopped, exhaustion pulsating through him. He bent down, panting, hands resting on his knees. Sweat dripped from his temples, his black shirt stuck to his back, and his chest rose and fell to bring back his beating heart to normal. 

He looked around and noted that he was in a strange part of the city, an unfamiliar territory. It was almost four in the morning, and he'd been running for at least two hours. Maybe he can make it back in time for a quick shower before he went to work. 

_Yah, he should go back._

Had he been breathing calmer, he would have heard the creeping steps approaching him, closing in on him. But no, he did not hear any of that.

What he heard was a loud thud, and before he looked around to check its source, he felt the back of his skull ignite in pain. 

His eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a rock.

* * *

A slap brought him to the land of the living. He groaned and opened his eyes just as the person’s boots were moving out of his line of sight. 

He blinked the daze away, trying to assess the damage, take baring of his position, or get any clue about the trouble that he landed in this time. 

Judging by the throbbing in his head, and the sticky liquid caked at the base of his skull, he guessed he was knocked out. By a blunt object _too_. Maybe he’s looking at a concussion. 

_perfect_

He could feel an odd strain in his shoulders, and as he tried to shake this tension off, he realized that his hands were bound uncomfortably behind his back. Judging by how they felt on his wrists, he would guess old manacles, iron. 

He sighed and cursed himself. Maybe wandering at night in an unfamiliar neighborhood was a stupid decision, after all. He made a mental note to add it to the list Gil now kept on his desk. 

_So what was this about? A case? No. They weren't working any case that fits this MO._

He lifted his head and looked around. He was in a moderately big room, no windows. Two light bulbs were hanging low from the ceiling. Bare. The floorboards were old and discolored. Old house perhaps. Basement? 

He pushed himself to sit when he saw the man in the boots come back. He looked at him for a second before noting casually, “oh, you are awake.”

He then walked off, hands busy with something from what Malcolm could hear. The nonchalant attitude was very irritating. It was as if the man just passed by a guy at a cafe. 

_What the hell??_

Malcolm sighed. It's not like one of them was kidnapped, bound on the floor, and bleeding anyway. 

His captor was tall, broad-shouldered, in his early forties. His dirty blond hair was tied in a neat bun, but other than that, he looked like an average Joe. Malcolm couldn't remember seeing this guy _before_.

Not on a case.

Not on other people’s cases.

Not on the FBI list. 

And not even in any way related to his father. 

_Just Who the hell is he? And what does he want?_

“I have _so_ many questions,” he replied nervously, trying to throw in some of the snark he’s usually known for. 

The guy paid him no attention.

"For starters, who are you? And umm, where are we?"

Nothing.

"Okay. I'll call you, Jason? You look like a Jason."

...

“Do you _even know who I am? Do you know my name? Or where I work?”_

The guy grunted, “I don’t care.”

_Oh wow. Wow! So that’s a random pick._ _Great job, Malcolm, really._

With a sinking feeling, he drew two conclusions. The first was that if this kidnapping was random, then _how the hell_ would anyone find him? The second conclusion was that he was screwed.

Without saying a word, the guy came over, scooped the front of Malcolm’s shirt and dragged him across the room. Malcolm’s stomach sank when he saw how easy it was to be dragged about, and how powerful his opponent was. It was as if he was pulling a chair, and not a fully grown-ass adult.

“I am quite fond of this shirt,” he mumbled wistfully, “maybe you don’t have to pull so hard. I..” 

The sight of where they were headed left him speechless, whatever forced joke he was trying to come up with next died on his tongue. 

The way he was positioned when he woke up made it difficult to see that corner of the basement. Now, as his heart thundered in his rib cage, he wished that it had stayed this way. 

The man- Jason, dropped him on his Knees Infront of an old rusty tub, _filled to the brim._

_Shit! Shitshitsshitshitshittt_

“We’ll start nice an’ easy.” Malcolm heard him say over the buzzing in his hears, “with one minute.” He set an alarm clock near Malcolm on the floor. Then with swift motions, he fisted one hand in his hair, the other grabbed the collar of his shirt, and he pushed him in. 

Malcolm didn’t even have time to object. No time to take a breath. His head was suddenly submerged under the water. 

_PANIC. No. no_. He knew the drill. 'Struggle' meant he would consume more oxygen. 'Struggle' will not make him win.The man had the upper hand and all his strength on his side. Malcolm? He had handcuffed hands and a drowning head. 

He forced himself to calm down, hold it in. The man said a minute. He can do a minute. Everyone can hold their breath for a minute, no trouble. 

No! Not like this. Not with a hand pushing his head down with brutal force. Not with his chest pushed tightly against the edge of the tub in a bruising hold. And certainly not when the one minute was decided on by a maniac who wanted him dead. 

Time wouldn’t speed. _Too long_. How long was a minute? How long? 

His heart, fueled with adrenaline, and mind, egged by fear, won over his rational reasoning and he started fighting. He tried to push his head up but it was in vain. Then he tried to free his body, and he twisted, but there was no room. _No room_. Panic swelled inside him. 

Then he was out.

And then he was gasping. 

But before he could even catch his breath, he was _back under_. 

This time was different, _worse_. Was it going to be another minute? He didn’t prepare himself. He didn’t have time to breathe.

Malcolm started struggling immediately, but again to no avail. His lungs burnt with the lack of air. 

The man’s hold was unrelenting. He had been doing this for a while. Malcolm couldn't be his first. 

Malcolm frantically pushed against the chains that he knew won't give. And just like all his futile, futile attempts, all it brought was more pain and no solace.

The sound of the alarm echoed, and the man pulled him out. 

He coughed and heaved in the welcome air. This time he had a plan. It was not the time to catch a breath, it was time to hoard air.

And his strategy worked. It saved him some time, a few precious seconds at least. He didn’t struggle immediately when he was pushed back, and he didn’t panic as much. He just had to hold it in and make it. 

_Sixty_ seconds he counted.

By _thirty_ , he was out of air.

By _fifteen_ , he was beginning to struggle again. 

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

He braced himself for the much welcome air, but nothing happened. His head was still in the water. He could hear the alarm, but he _was still_ under. 

_Nonononono_! he struggled, even more, pushed and pushed. No, he can’t stay anymore. The man said it was only a minute. He panicked and pushed and thrashed until he felt a stabbing pain in his side. The bastard had punched him. and this was all it took. 

He opened his mouth, screaming in pain, but no sound came out. Instead, the dirty, grimy water rushed in, pushing through his throat, entering his air starved lungs choking him. His body convulsed and shook, but the man _still_ did not pull him out. 

Darkness offered to embrace him, and he willingly accepted. 

He was drifting in an endless cold void. Then something with hammering strength was slamming on his chest. The force was persistent and strong enough that it threatened to break his ribs. 

Malcolm's eyes shot open, and he felt his lungs start to fill with oxygen. He sucked in lungfuls of air as hard as he could and as fast as possible. It was as if he was told that the air in the room was going to disappear. But he was excused. Given his predicament, and the fear that he could be pushed back in the tub at any second, every breath was precious. 

He was lying on his side, shirt drenched in water, hair soaking wet, “you said one minute,” he croaked, “you.. you punched me.”

"You hoarded air. Don't do it again." The guy replied as he busied himself with the cursed tub once more. Malcolm groaned. He really wanted to rest on his back and sleep, but with hands chained behind him, it will only bring him more pain and ache, and sleep was not an option anyway.

He thought of the past few minutes. His heart had stopped. He almost drowned. The thought settled in with profound terror. 

He calmed himself and tried to breathe. But his lungs burned, and his ribs ached, and his nose stung and his head? His head was a throbbing mess. The thought that more was coming terrified him. _Oh, and there was definitely more coming._

He was trembling as he rested his aching head on the floor and stared at the wall. He willed his mind to think, to profile to get himself out of this goddamn pickle he somehow landed In. He was terribly agitated that he could not profile this guy. He only saw his face for a few seconds. The man barely talked. He was curt, concise, methodical. He never sneered, never laughed. Was he a sadist? Did he enjoy this? Why is he doing it? Was Malcolm the intended victim? Was he really a random one? 

Soo many questions... 

But he had nothing. No background information, no name, nothing. He couldn't come up with a profile based on what he could see. He needed facts and events to draw conclusions. Profiling was not a party trick, he often told people. He closed his eyes and, for once, he hoped that it was. Perhaps then it would have saved his life.

He squirmed when the man pulled him again and pushed him towards the tub. He tried not to whimper, to look defiant and dignified. _He really did!_ But when he saw that the tub was now filled with ice cubes, the pitiful sound escaped his lips. 

“No...,” his heart skipped to his throat. He wouldn't last long. 

The man set the timer, put it down, and then he was holding Malcolm like last time. Malcolm didn't wait till he was under the water to fight back, and as soon as the hands were near his hair, he started thrashing with all his force. The man was still stronger, though, and overpowered him quickly. 

“Let’s start with _twenty_ ,” he announced and pushed his head in the tub. The shock effect was staggering. The second his face broke the surface, he opened his mouth. The icy water was nothing like the lukewarm one. 

He choked. 

_Up! up! Please pull me up,_ his mind begged. _Up I can’t breathe_. He struggled. 

His body was hacked with tremors as his lungs protested against the sudden fluid intake. 

And then the alarm rang. 

And then he was out.

And then he was crying and coughing and spitting water. 

He tried to bend over, to drop down from this kneeling position, but the hands-on him never wavered, never gave him any slack. 

The man adjusted the alarm. Malcolm braced himself, dread and fear already drowning him before the water even did. 

“Do you give up?” The man asked.

He stirred, confused, “give ..Uup? Whaa?” he started to ask, but the sentence died on his lips as the man shook his head reproachfully, "guess not."

Malcolm was suddenly back in the water. And while this time his body was prepared for the shock, and he kept his mouth closed, still, he was lunged in mid-sentence and had no oxygen. 

He didn’t know how long will he be in. _The man never told him_. And give up _what_? 

He started counting.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_Fourteen._

_._

_Twenty._

He knew his head wasn’t getting out of this tub until the man wanted it to, and yet he couldn’t stop fighting. Malcolm’s upper body ached, already bruised, from the useless fidgeting against his hold. His wrists were bleeding. And his knees, forced to hold his weight in a kneeling position on an unforgiving ground, was throbbing and shaking. But none of that mattered because his lungs were ablaze with fire. Because the icy water was like stabbing daggers as it filled his nostrils. 

_Because it's been forty-seven seconds, and he was still forced under the icy water._

His struggles were becoming weaker and weaker. He was tempted to just let go. The man was certainly going to kill him. He didn’t need a profile to know that. _It was obvious._

Wouldn't it will be easier to just stop fighting the inevitable then? Yet, a small part of him disagreed. A small part of him really wanted to live, to break free, to save himself from this torture. 

_Fifty-five._

A small part of him yearned for life, and this part kept fighting.

_Sixty._

_A minute!!!_ He was out. 

“Stop...” he rasped out between hacking coughs. “Just... stop!”

“Do you give up?”

"Give up, WHAT." He shrieked vehemently.

“Another _Sixty_ then..”

_Noooooo!! No-no-no._ He would have wept had he not been engulfed in the cursed tub to endure its icy torture again. Maybe _he was_ already weeping.

Then he was out and then _in again._

And again. 

_And again...._

_Five_

_Four_

_Three_

_Two_

_One_

His head was yanked out, and Malcolm let out a spluttering gasp. He spat the water out and started to cough for the millionth time in this torturous hour. Every spasm was sending a spike of pain so sharp it was unbearable. Like always, the hand fisted in his hair didn’t let go. This time it twisted and twisted until he yelled out in pain. 

“Stop...” he whined pathetically, his voice abused, “what do you even want.” He let out the words between panting breaths.

Jason looked at him, face devoid of expressions, "I already asked. But you are not ready. Let's do seventy."

Malcolm didn't think he can hold out for long this time. He was so damn tired. How many times was this process repeated already? How many rounds more can he endure?

_Seventy._

_Sixty-nine._

Malcolm tried to wiggle, but the hands holding him were still unyielding. 

.

.

_Fifty._

He could feel the blood pooling from his hands, handcuffed behind his back. 

.

_Forty-five._

He pathetically started struggling again. 

.

 _Forty._

His lungs were screaming at him. _Too long too long he can’t do this anymore._

.

_Thirty-two._

The bastard kept pushing his head down even more. The water wouldn’t get warmer... _so cold_. _So tired..._

.

_Twenty-five._

His ears were ringing, his body was flapping, and his head was throbbing. Maybe this was it.

 _Twenty four._

Darkness was encroaching again. _He can’t .. he can’t do it_.

_Twenty-three._

Thoughts of giving up invaded his mind again, suggesting that he should just open his mouth and let the water pour into his lungs. 

_Twenty-two._

This time he listened and opened his mouth, and he was choking for the umpteenth time. His burning lungs protesting, too strained from the repeated process of trying to keep the water from suffocating him. 

_Twenty._

The darkness offered him solace once more, and his mind jumped at the opportunity, leaving his aching body to endure the torture alone. And then he was falling and falling and falling into nothingness.

.

.

.

The crushing weight on his chest was lifted, and his eyes spluttered open. He spat out water and blood. 

He was breathing again.

His heart almost stopped, and the man brought him back again.

Everything hurt. He twitched on the floor in agony as another fit of coughing hit. 

He knew that the next time he's pushed in, he won't make it. He had to find a way to save himself. No one knew he was taken. Help was not coming. He was his only hope, his own lifeline, and he had to stop this somehow, no matter the cost. And so Malcolm stooped down and groveled.

"Please, please stop..... Stop! I don't think I can't take anymore... I'd do anything else... Pplessee," he begged.

The man observed him for a few seconds, and Malcolm could swear he saw a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Then his captor got up and drained the tub. 

Malcolm wanted to sag in relief. He wanted to buckle to the floor and relax. But he just knew it wasn't as it seemed. He knew that the reason behind the man’s acceptance meant something else was in store. _And he was right_. His eyes widened in terror as he saw what the guy took out of his pocket. 

"Let's continue," he said, and he moved towards him. 

Malcolm was suddenly pushing himself away from him. _No, this was bad. Very bad_. He pushed and pushed until his back hit the wall. The fear had kicked in his 'fight or flight' response, and he was wide awake and buzzing with energy.

Malcolm's eyes kept darting between the man and his hands as terror gripped his heart. The man, at least, finally showed some emotions. He seemed to enjoy this reaction. He liked his victims scared, Malcolm noted, amazed that he could still profile in the middle of all this. 

Jason crouched beside him, probably savoring the smell of fear and desperation. He was so focused on the here and now, so absorbed in his feelings of euphoria that he lost focus for a second. 

He did not anticipate Malcolm's trained jerk off the floor and the swift knee strike he delivered. The kick hit the man in the shoulders. It wasn't brutal given Malcolm's current situation. Still, the profiler gave it all the power he could muster, and it was fast, precise, and unexpected.

The man yelled out as he toppled to the ground. 

Malcolm leapt to his feet and started running. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you have questions. So is Malcolm :P maybe you will find out before him? Maybe not. Gotta wait and see :D 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! :D


	2. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special MEGA thanks to my amazing Beta Jameena <3333 I love you!  
> You polished and fixed this and made it 100% better to read <3
> 
> This chapter is intense! :)

**Fire**

Ever wondered why humans swing their arms by their side as they walk? Is it because this motion gives them balance? Having your hands tied behind your back and sporting a mild concussion sure affects speed and _impedes_ this balance. Malcolm’s mind supplied these observations unhelpfully as his face rushed to meet the floor. 

Obviously, he couldn't run straight. He could barely stand without swaying, much less without his vision blurring. By the time he had tottered halfway across the room, the man had already recovered and grabbed for his ankles. Malcolm hit the floor with a thud. He twisted at the last minute, shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. 

_Better his shoulder than his nose,_ he thought.

He thrashed desperately, trying to free his ankles from the man’s grip. He kicked out blindly as Jason tried to subdue him. One of the kicks caught his captor in the face, and blood gushed freely from the man’s nose. Seizing the opportunity, Malcolm scrambled on all fours, and managed to gain a few feet of freedom before the man tackled him once more. With a vicious force, he punched Malcolm in the face.

Malcolm saw the world titling around him and then nothing at all.

* * *

Malcolm’s senses came back slowly. His head pulsated, ached, eyelids too heavy to open. He felt tired, more so than usual. He tried to remember what had happened the previous night that made him so groggy. Maybe he’d drank too much? _Mmm no_.

Memories of pain hazily crossed his mind, and then suddenly he snapped awake, his body jerking violently toward an upright position--or it tried to, at least. He couldn’t move. Not even one inch. 

He was wide awake now. The reality of where he was and what had happened slammed into him like a car driving at 90 miles an hour. Panic and fear overtook him as he tried to discern the reason behind his immobility. 

Coils of thick, brutal ropes bound his ankles, holding him to a makeshift wooden table. Similar ropes wrapped around his knees and middle, completely restricting any and all movement. Any sort of motion resulted in searing pain as the ropes chafed against his skin. 

The man had taken his shirt. Malcolm glimpsed his chest, bare and discolored from the chest compressions he had received earlier. His hands were wrenched above him, still cuffed in the manacles and connected to something, leaving them suspended at an angle. He couldn't move them, and they were already aching. Another round of ropes was secured just under his armpits, forcing his arms to stay outstretched above his head, offering no room for slack and creating an annoying pressure just under his neck that made breathing even harder. 

For the first time in his life, he wished that this was just a night terror. He hoped that this was an elaborate dream conceived by his subconscious to taunt him. _Oh, how he yearned for it to be true._ He knew it wasn’t, though, and he laughed darkly to himself when he realized that in this one instance, his night terrors felt like the safer option.

He tensed when Jason came into view. His nose bruised and inflamed, nostrils clogged with tissue paper. He was glaring, eyes sparking with anger and bloodlust. Malcolm couldn’t help but snicker internally, heart filling with pride when he saw him. _At least, he could give as good as he got._

It was a nice thought, but it dissipated when he considered his current predicament. He was sure whatever state he was in now was entirely his fault. It was payback for daring an attack and venturing an escape. 

He tried to move his arms again, tugging on the chains to test their strength. They clinked and, _of course, did not give_. The ropes around his upper body rubbed painfully against his skin, and he hissed. 

“What is this all for,” he asked, eyes motioning to his body.

For a while, the guy surveyed him, enjoying the pained expressions Malcolm was making before he stated, "I made a mistake. You are not like the others. This is for what you did. Now, let's continue."

The man disappeared from his line of sight. Malcolm tilted his head to search for him, but with his movements limited, he soon gave up. He was ashamed when he saw that his body betrayed how terrified he was. Chest rising and falling frantically, shoulder muscles quaking, and the chains attached at his wrists clanked in an almost musical way. 

The sound he heard next made his blood run cold. _The hiss and flicker of flames._

“Hey, you don’t have to do this,” his voice cracked. “My friends...They’re looking for me as we speak!” He almost laughed at how stupid and childish his empty threat sounded. _No one was looking for him, because no one even knew he was missing!_

The man materialized by his side and cracked a smile, "And what is it exactly that you think I am going to do?" He brought the flare torch he was holding close to Malcolm's face. 

Malcolm tried to swallow his obvious horror as he stared at the object in Jason’s hand. He forced himself to look unfazed by the threat, but he couldn’t stop his feet from twitching, his hands from shaking, or his chest from rising and falling at the speed of sound. After a few seconds of taunting, Jason pocketed the torch. 

Malcolm sagged in relief. 

He could see that the man was not as fully in control as he had been previously. The man was angry, prone to provocation, and unstable. The attack had disoriented him, ruined his ritual, or whatever that was. The profiler was now seeing him in a totally different light. _He could work with this. He could try to get something out of it._

“Look, whatever you think you’re doing,” he tried. “It doesn’t have to go this way. I can help you. I know you weren’t born this way.” 

“And what are you? A therapist?” The man mocked.

“Actuallyyy, I majored in psychology...”

“Shut up!” 

"See... I can tell that you don't like this. You aren't a sadist. You don't enjoy causing pain." Malcolm lied through his teeth. He knew the man liked to inflict pain, saw it in his eyes right before he attacked him. But sometimes it just helped to reshape the truth.

_Maybe it could waver this guy off his crazy. Maybe it could save him._

“You think this is your mission to -to hurt me. Maybe someone hurt you. Which is terrible and…and I am sorry. But this cycle of pain and hurt can end. You can do something about it.”

“Here’s the thing, _Mr. Psychologist_ , I love hurting people. Save your breath.” The man laughed and turned to move. 

“Wait... wait! Listen ...I--”

“I said, ‘ _shut up!_ ’”

Malcolm clenched his jaw, despair gnawing at his heart. He didn't know what else to say to get himself out of this mess, but shutting up and giving in was not an option. With his entire body incapacitated, his tongue was his only weapon, and he would keep using it for as long as possible.

“You’ll have to gag me then,” he whispered, closing his eyes. 

“No.” The man deliberated, “I want to hear you scream.” 

“That won’t happen,” Malcolm retorted, and he was surprised at how steady his voice sounded. 

“It will. They all scream. Eventually.”

Malcolm’s interest piqued when the guy unwittingly revealed more information for the profile. 

“So there _were_ others?” he asked. “Jason--aah!”

He cried out as Jason grasped his hair and yanked his head up. Again he brought the torch close to Malcolm’s face, and this time he flipped it on. A sharp blue flame roared from the device, filling the quiet room. It flickered _so close to his eyes._

"Ok, ok, ok, ok... no more talk. Got it. No more. No more," Malcolm yelped as he tugged against his chains, knowing full well that they wouldn't give. 

Jason held the torch and watched him taking frantic breaths, pulling against his chains, and spasming beneath the ropes, all while his horrified eyes kept fixated on the flame. After some time, Jason's lips curled into a smile, and he lifted the torch. 

Malcolm was almost hyperventilating by then, his body breaking into a sweat and trembling again. Each tremor burned as his skin rubbed against the ropes. He tried to calm himself, but there was no hope to hold onto, _nothing..._

“And just like that, I have your obedience,” the man, _no the monster_ , said. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of them?”

“I am no..”

“I **said** SHUT. UP.”

Malcolm nodded quickly. 

"First, you attack me, and now you want to _fix_ me? Things were going to end so much faster before you did that. But now? I think you deserve something extra special. Something to prolong your suffering until you’re begging for death.”

And then he moved, and Malcolm couldn't see him anymore. His stomach churned with fear, his heart was beating at a thousand beats per minute. He whimpered when he heard the torch ignite once more. He strained his ears, trying to deduce what was happening. 

A few minutes passed in confusion as he heard the torch burning and felt nothing. The silence unnerved him, and right as he started to relax, he felt it. The iron manacles around his wrists were getting hotter. Slowly but progressively hotter. 

_Shit…_

It was mild at first, just a minor inconvenience, like the slight sting you get from touching a metal railing on a hot summer day, but the man didn't stop there. The torch kept heating, and the metal kept getting warmer and warmer, hotter, and hotter. 

His arms shook, strained by the suspension, numb, protesting against the pain. His body trembled, and his fingers twitched. Every move, no matter how small it was, resulted in anguish. His hands clenched and unclenched, trying to absorb the intensity of the searing pain.

And then the metal was scorching, the heat blistering, and he cried out. White pain washed over him. 

Tears pricked at the corners of Malcolm’s eyes as he screamed and pulled his arms towards his core. The chains pulled back, and the pain intensified, wrists burning even more, but he wouldn't stop.

He could feel the scalding metal blistering at his skin, “Aaaah--ahhh,” he croaked. “Stop! stop!” 

The monster’s voice howled above him. “Do you give up?” he asked again. 

Malcolm senselessly nodded. “Yes,” he rasped. “Yesss, I do! Please, please, just stop!“

And Jason did and was now hovering over him. Malcolm’s eyes were hazy, glazed with pain, his sobs interrupted by hiccuping gasps. His eyes were too unfocused to find the man. He begged regardless, voice wavering as he spoke, “Please take them off! They’re still hot! They’re burning!”

This time, Jason’s voice carried the same nonchalant tone it had when it all started. He was back in control. “No. I don’t think I will.”

“But I gave you what you wanted!” Malcolm sobbed. “I ngh--”

“I wouldn’t move my hands too much if I were you. Your wrists look bad. This is a severe first-degree burn at worst, but I can always continue-- if I want." 

Malcolm bit his lips and tried to stop his hands from moving, the man's threat hanging in the air and inciting more fear and panic in his mind. 

He heard his captor move, "Just remember that this pain was your fault." Suddenly he was on top of the profiler, straddling him. “But what will happen now? That was always planned.”

Malcolm gasped, "Hey…hey, what are you doing? I told you I give up. I gave up already!" He wriggled and writhed in panic, barely able to move, not the way he was restrained, and not with the brute's weight crushing him! A high pitched whine escaped his lips, and he whimpered, "Get off me!! Please!"

“I know you gave up. This is not related. Consider it-- _a gift_.”

“No...n-no” his voice broke when he heard the torch ignite once more, the cursed hissing sound echoing with a deafening finality. 

"Now, take a deep breath.”

Malcolm knew what was going to happen. He really did! But knowing was not the same as experiencing it. The moment the flame touched his chest, he shrieked, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. The torch moved across his chest, making lines and curves, drawing out gasps and screams. His head, the only unrestricted part of his body, jerked violently from side to side. His voice broke as the sobs wracked his body. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. All he felt was blinding pain. 

He howled. His nose filled with the smell of burnt flesh, making him gag. Burning. Everything was burning. Burning until it all stopped. The weight on his body lifted, and the darkness roared up and engulfed him. 

He was left sprawled on the table, as he drifted in a sea of pain. It rolled over him in hot waves, and he was roasting in it. And then there was a blinding light and a clicking sound. He wanted to open his eyes, say anything, but he couldn't find his way to the surface, the agony drowning all coherent thought. Every inhale was like fire, every exhale was like smoke, ash, and soot. Nothing was clear anymore, and he slowly melted into the darkness. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The sound of movement nearby brought him back from his pain-induced stupor. Malcolm blinked his dizziness away and took in a shaking breath. The man approached him holding a blade, and Malcolm tensed in anticipation of more pain. But suddenly, the ropes binding him gave away, and he grunted as blood rushed into numb limbs. 

“I snapped a picture while you were out of it,” the man noted. He disappeared behind him and unlocked the chains connecting his manacles. 

Malcolm whimpered as his arms were lowered to his sides, abused joints protesting the sudden shift in position. 

“Want to see the end product?” Jason asked.

Malcolm gave no answer, but the man shoved a Polaroid picture in his face anyway.

He didn’t recognize himself.

Face contorted in pain and smeared with tears, eyes glassy, hair mussed up. _And his chest_! Red and blistered, he almost gagged when he caught a glimpse of it. His lip trembled at the sight. A word was etched into his skin, lines, and curves drawn carefully. He closed his eyes, but the three letters burned a hole in his mind. 

_“S I X”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the saying goes, "things will get worse before they get better." but then maybe they won't, who knows :P 
> 
> Shoutout to Adrenalineshots for her help and for providing me with her expert medical opinion <3<3 lovee you, and thanks for making this better!
> 
> As usual! thanks for reading <3 I hope you liked it. Let me know what you think! :D


	3. Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I know this was supposed to be the last chapter! but after I wrote that last sentence I H A D to stop! It's a perfect place to stop :D
> 
> You will see!

**Earth**

Still unsteady on his feet, Malcolm stumbled out of the house he was trapped in and heaved in the much welcome air. Every part of him ached, every inch of him throbbed, and his head felt like it weighed two tonnes. Jason was right behind him, one hand clutching his arm, supporting him for he could barely walk, and the other shoving a gun in his back, lest he tried to do something stupid _again_. 

Malcolm wasn't sure if he was that predictable, or if all the others tried to escape too, and Jason was just following his standard 'killing' procedure. 

Dressed in nothing but his sweatpants, Malcolm couldn’t help but shiver as the cold air hit him. Yet, he appreciated how the cool breeze felt on his skin. It acted as a soothing balm for his burn and offered some reprieve against the itchy and throbbing blistering mark on his chest. 

The house was old, as he guessed, secluded, in the middle of nowhere. He couldn’t discern where it was, or how far away they were from the city. It felt like the place was engulfed in a maze of green- now black- shadows. Much like Martin Whitly, this was Jason’s perfect hunting ground. 

  
  


Malcolm tottered across the field, swinging, fighting his nausea with every step. The thirst was beginning to nag at the back of his mind, jostling for his attention with the pain, fear, and helplessness.

He had spent the past couple of hours - or so he guesses since it was night again- in a dazed state. He was awake and alert at times, and then he was not. He was crying in pain, and then he felt nothing at all. He was trying to escape, scheming at times, and then he was lost in despair, wanting it all to end. 

The time passed, but he could not feel it. It slipped through his fingers as he fought his way back to consciousness. 

Then the man was suddenly there, looking at him with cold eyes, talking to him, and ordering him to get up in an infuriatingly calm attitude. 

" _It's t_ _he final stage_ ," he said, but Malcolm was too stunned to listen, too tired to care. And so he let the man push him off the table, shove a gun in his face and walk him out of the house. 

It wasn't until they were out, breathing the fresh air, and walking through the woods that his senses finally returned to him. Not having to stay in the room where his kidnapper tortured him helped Malcolm, set the gears in his mind to work, and gave him hope again. 

  
  


At first, he wondered what the man's next step was, and a part of him supplied answers that he quickly dismissed. _It can't be_. So, instead, he focused on keeping his feet steady and finding a way out of this. He surveyed the grounds for any distraction he could use. 

Their journey wasn't very long, though, and when the man stopped abruptly and took a sharp left, Malcolm's heart sank. He was roughly shoved towards the freshly dug hole in the ground, around four feet deep; Malcolm's grave. 

“Get in,” he said.

“No. I don’t think I will,” Malcolm spat out between gritted teeth. 

The man snickered and shoved the gun further in his back to remind Malcolm of its presence, “you will get in alive or with a bullet in your head.”

"Well, considering my options. I'll take the bullet, please." 

"Funny, you think you have a choice."

Malcolm bit his lips, _Well if he won't shoot?..._

He turned, and with a well-versed move, disarmed the guy and punched him in the face, _again_. 

And then _both_ men were on the floor, crying out. Jason clutching his bleeding- and definitely now broken- nose and Malcolm hugging his burnt wrist that protested against the force that rippled through it after the punch. 

"Aaah! aaaah! Fucking bastard! I am going to _kill you_ ," Jason shrieked, the pain seemingly egging him on, angering him more. 

He bounced on the profiler, and the last thing Malcolm saw was the bloody fist of his captor.

* * *

Staying conscious was an extensively hard battle, and Malcolm was losing _miserably_. His mind was drifting in a haze of pain, tempting him to go back in the blissful darkness. But his heart was still furiously pumping the adrenaline, trying to wake him up and have him fight and survive. 

When he was finally able to overcome that haze, and by the time he was back in the world of the living, half of his body was already buried under the dirt. The panic settled in, and he tried to wriggle senselessly. _No no no-no-no. this is worse than his worst nightmare._

His struggles only brought pain, and he cried out as the grains of sand rubbed against his burned skin every time he moved. His legs were buried, his arms were buried, he was slowly blending in with the ground. It was so heavy to move. He was already stuck. _It was too late. Too late to do anything_. 

Any shift or twitch, any motion caused more dirt to fall on his face and hastened the process of burying him alive. 

So he stopped fighting.

And Malcolm started screaming, “HELP!” he shrieked desperately, “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! —HELP!”

His screams echoed in the vastness of the woods and were swallowed by the darkness of the night. No one was going to hear him, and no one would save him, and yet he kept crying for help. 

  
  


After what seemed like hours of screaming, his abused throat gave up, and his last cry came out as a choked sob, “please… somebody help me— anybody.”

The monster towered over him, satisfaction shining in his eyes. He had stopped covering him with the dirt long ago and was now enjoying the view of his victim's panic, relishing in Malcolm's despair, and savoring every second. 

“Well that was quite a show,” he chuckled darkly, “you are a very loud screamer. It’s impressive.”

Malcolm sniffed, tears stinging his eyes. He knew that pleading and begging will not help him, but he tried anyway. _What does he have to lose?_

“Please—,” he looked at the man with wide eyes, imploring, voice shaking, “please just kill me. Don’t- d-don’t bury me alive.” He gasped, and he let the tears fall, “Please… j-just shoot me… I beg you.”

Jason observed Malcolm's begging with icy satisfaction. He said nothing, did nothing, just watched him. His smug face curling in a mocking smile as Malcolm's begs eventually subdued just like his screams. 

  
  


Malcolm came to realize that, like the five stages of grief, there were the three stages of dealing with a torturous maniac. The first stage is when you try to fight the inevitable pain and hope you overcome the hurdle. The second is when you break down, crumble to the floor, and ask for mercy. 

But the third? 

The third is when the acceptance and resignation hit you. 

When his head was shoved in the icy water, he had fought and failed. Then he broke down and begged, and it saved him. 

When he was tied down and burned, he used his tongue and bargained with the man, and yet he still failed. Then again, he broke down and begged, and the man stopped. 

But the previous two times, Jason stopped because there was always something more on his agenda. There was always another torture Malcolm would be forced to endure, another hell he would have to go through. That's why the man listened to him when he stooped and begged for mercy.

Right now? 

Fighting back failed, as usual. _But the begging failed him too_. 

It was the end of the line, and there was nothing Malcolm could do or say to change that. The acceptance phase was brutal, but it hit him with an overwhelming certainty that left him numb. Blank. 

His sobbing calmed, his senseless begging stopped. He wheezed and shuddered under the dirt, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes.

  
  


"See. This is beautiful. It always happens. When they realize that fighting is futile and that begging will get them nowhere. Then they get this same look. The look of resignation. The loss of hope. It never gets boring to watch." 

Malcolm closed his eyes, the tears silently falling across his temple. Everything but his head had been buried; soon enough, he will be part of this ground. Soon enough, he will take his last breath. Suffocated, alone, in the dark. _To be forgotten_. 

"I have a couple of questions," Jason said, but Malcolm was in another world, lost in thoughts, anchoring himself to meaningless hopes.

Hopes that the team would find out he went missing, and they would track him here. Hopes that they will stop this monster, that they will put an end to his killings. They must! No one else deserves this. _No one_. 

“I am _talking to you_!” the man spat as he threw a handful of dirt on Malcolm’s face. Malcolm coughed and blinked the sand away— or at least as much as he could, and faced his torturer. 

“You with me?” 

“Mhmm,” he hummed dazedly. 

“Your name and age.”

Malcolm blinked in confusion and looked at the man. He was holding a pen and a notebook, preparing to take notes. _Of course, he's keeping records!_

“Are you deaf?”

“No,” he rasped out, “Malcolm Bright. 32”

“Are you married, Malcolm?” 

“huh?…No”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Yes…” Malcolm stuttered, “used to…”

"So why were you out so late that night? Seeing a mistress, perhaps? were you cheating on her?"

“What?” Malcolm’s brows creased. A tiny voice in his head was banging and shouting, begging him to profile, telling him that he finally had something to work with. But that voice was too small and distant, and Malcolm was so tired to listen. _It wouldn’t work anyway._

"No...No. She's not even-," he closed his eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. The words were slow and emotionless "I-I was running… because I couldn't… sleep." 

“Sure you were,” the man spat venomously.

“It’s the truth… “ 

The minutes passed while the man wrote in his book. The pen’s scribbles and the profiler's labored breathing were the only sounds filling up the vastness of the woods. 

"Well, this is the end of our journey," Jason concluded and closed his book.

“My friends… will find you,” Malcolm whispered and shuddered when he was met with a gruff and merciless laugh.

"No. no one will. Now before we continue, I want you to tell me something deep, something personal. Consider it your last confession. I cross my heart I will keep your secret safe," Jason snickered. 

Malcolm's empty eyes met the monster's. He was seeing the man in a whole new light now. His curt and nonchalant attitude was hiding a sadistic unhinged serpent. He jeered and mocked, enjoying the pain of others. Everything he did was planned, every question he asked, every move he made was meant to cause pain and humiliation. 

Jason was betrayed by a loved one, and this was his revenge against humanity. It was unfortunate that Malcolm was one of the unlucky ones who were forced to face that wrath. 

Malcolm cleared his throat, fighting against the tears that were suffocating him. He inhaled sharply and told the man the truth. It was his confession from beyond the grave. 

His lower lip trembled as he spoke, “I w-wanted to be accepted, be loved… for who I am. N-not for who my father was…”

At this moment, Malcolm wanted to laugh. Gabrielle had been trying to get him to admit this for twenty years, and she never succeeded. _But this a-hole could_?

He didn't really know why. Perhaps this confession was for him to hear, for him to ease his mind. _Perhaps._

Gabrielle will be proud of him. A sense of calm and acceptance washed over him. And there was something almost liberating in this confession. It made it easier somehow. The man was speaking, but he couldn't listen anymore. 

Malcolm looked up at the sky for the last time. It was clear, mesmerizing, the prettiest shade of navy, and the stars were sprawled, shimmering like diamonds. Jason's shovel heaved in more sand and dirt that landed on his face. He coughed and spat it out, and then he closed his eyes.

Maybe he'll get lucky, and his team will locate his body after catching this guy. Maybe they will bring Malcolm home. Mercifully he lost control of his senses and was just now drifting away, numbly. 

The cherished memories he kept over the years played over in his head like a movie. It helped him escape his hell and dissociate from this painful reality.

Over and over, he played those memories.

Gil hugging him and caring for him. That one time he took him fishing, and they ended up forgetting the bait at home. Gil's soothing and gentle hands rubbing the back of his neck and releasing the tension. Gil and Jackie, hugging him as he graduated from Harvard. Jackie, teaching him to ride a bike and Gil laughing as he tended to the BBQ. Gil just being there. _Always there_. 

Ainsley hugging him the first time he had his night terror. Her wavering smile as she gave him her ‘Mr pickles’ to drive the bad dreams away. His beautiful sister as she joked and teased. Her laughter echoing in the house, painting rainbows and unicorns that carefully hid the pain its members held within. 

And then his mom, as she soothed his bruised eyes, brushed his hair away, countless times. Her constant reassurances that he was not his father, that he was a good and kind person. Her hands touching his chin affectionately. He knows that her parenting methods were unconventional, yet she was always caring and loving in her own way. 

The dirt kept coming, and he shook his head, pushing it away. 

Dani. Dani, looking gorgeous in that red dress, as she smiled and blushed. Dani, letting him in and trusting him. _His first friend in years_.

His ears were already under the sand, but he could hear sounds. _People talking?_

And JT, finally accepting him, letting him in, considering him part of the team. It was something he couldn't imagine. _But it happened_. Then JT was now confiding in him, and giving him relationship advice. 

More sand kept falling over his face. 

More talking. 

It was louder now. 

Voices were shouting. 

And then the faint sound of something resembling a gunshot echoed, and something heavy fell over him, disturbing the sand, moving it away from his face.

Malcolm reluctantly opened his eyes.

He gasped when he saw the lifeless eyes of Jason staring right back at him. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seee! what a perfect end to the chapter lol :P 
> 
> I promise the next one will be the last, and it will be soft (well as soft as I can hehe)
> 
> I hope you liked it! let me know what you think :D


	4. Nights Like These

**Nights Like These**

Gil’s heart hadn’t settled in a normal beating rhythm since he received that phone call almost twenty hours ago. 

Twenty hours that dragged and felt like twenty years. Yet, when Gil looked at the figure of David Paxson shoving dirt in a grave, his heart sank. Twenty hours were not enough to locate Malcolm. He was dead. Gil had failed to save him. 

Suddenly, the world swayed, and he could barely stand, let alone talk. 

“NYPD! Step away from the grave and put your hands where we can see them,” one of his men said, and Gil was glad because he could not find his voice to speak. 

He was so sure that Malcolm will hold on until they arrived. The boy was a fighter, he was tougher than the others. Gil tasted his tears, and he quickly rubbed them away. Those tears are not for his officers to see. These tears are for later... when he is left alone to grieve. 

The man didn’t even look at them. He just continued filling the grave, ignoring the six police officers aiming their guns at him and ordering him to stand down. 

“David Paxson! Step away from the grave,” the voice warned him again slowly. 

“There is no law that prevents me from digging holes on my property,” he replied back calmly. 

And in the tense silence that followed, Gil heard it. The faint but labored wheezing coming from the grave. _Could it be?_ Is Malcolm still alive? 

It was a tiny shred of hope that dared to turn into overwhelming relief and happiness. And then all that morphed into an uncontrollable rage. _He’s burying him alive!!_

For a second, he forgot about police procedures and this man's rights. All he thought of was Malcolm, all that he wanted to do was get this monster away from him before it was too late. 

Gil approached the man, his weapon drawn, anger pulsating through his body. 

“Get away from that grave. NOW!” he yelled.

Maybe the man was stupid, or maybe it was just instinct, but as soon as Gil got near him, he reached for his own gun and aimed it at him in turn. 

Someone yelled "gun," and then another fired his weapon, and in a second, the kidnapper's lifeless body fell face-first into the grave he was filling. 

Ten seconds passed in silence as everyone took in what happened. Then as if on cue, everyone started buzzing around. Gil took a deep breath and looked inside the grave. He could see the outline of Malcolm's hair, maybe? It was too dark. 

He yelled, "Bright! Bright, are you there? Can you hear me?"

“ _Gil?_ ” a small voice, unsure at first, asked. But then it became louder and clearer “Gil!! is that you?? Gil!” 

"Bright! Yes, we're here! You're safe! Are- are you okay?" _What a stupid question.._. 

“I am okay…,” Malcolm called out, still sounding breathless. “I just need... out of here!” His voice got high pitched on the last. 

“We’re working on it! just give us a minute and we will get you out!” 

Gil observed his men working; Some were surveying the perimeter, while the others were removing Paxson’s dead body. He had buckled near the grave and was waiting for them to move Paxson so he can dig Bright out. 

He needed to hold him and make sure he’s actually alive. He needed to make sure the voice he’s hearing isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

“Oh my god!” bile rose to his stomach when he saw Malcolm, all covered in dirt, hair mussed with dried and fresh blood, eyes bloodshot. He was a mess, and Gil’s heart ached to see his kid like that. 

"Hey, Gil!" he called when he was finally free and out; his voice was hoarse and choked with tears. 

“I thought I lost you kid!” a few tears fell from his eyes as he scooped Malcolm in a careful and affectionate hug. 

Only then did Gil feel at ease. Only then did his heart settle back to an average beating pace. Bright was alive. 

* * *

It was all a dream. It had to be _right?_ Malcolm was sure that he was going to die, and yet here he was! _Alive, breathing, above the ground, and wrapped in a shock blanket!_

_Gil saved him! They found him!_

It was a miracle. 

He was sitting on the ground, and Gil was by his side, looking at him with eyes overflowing with concern, guilt, and fear. 

"I'm fine, Gil," he croaked, and his false bravado sounded fake even to his own ears, "Trust me!" he added. 

“The doctors will decide that once we get you to the hospital,” Gil pursed his lips and clenched his hands, “the EMTs are two minutes out.”

“No, Gil,” he protested, “there is no need for a hospital visit. Nothing a few hours of rest won’t fix!”

“ _No need for a hospital?_ ” Malcolm winced as Gil shot to his feet and started pacing.

“Look at _you!_ Your head is bleeding, you may have a concussion, your chest and wrists are burned and blistered. You can barely hold your end of the conversation, and you were _buried alive!_ ”

“Drowned too...” Malcolm added nonchalantly.

Gil’s eyes widened in terror, “w-w- _what?_ ”

“Gil, I’m okay… really!”

“We _are_ getting you to the hospital. End of discussion!” he crouched in front of Malcolm and brushed the stray hairs out of his face, “I have to make sure you’re okay, kid. Please.”

Malcolm nodded and closed his eyes. In truth, he felt like crap. Maybe a visit to the hospital wasn't such a bad idea after all? Plus, if it will make Gil feel better, then _why not?_

Dani and JT came running towards them, and behind them were the EMTs. Gil told him that they went with another team to check the house while he and the rest took the woods. 

"Hey, Guys!" he smiled and waved at them.

Their horrified eyes surveyed him, taking in the bruises and the after-effects of torture. Like their boss, Malcolm could see the pain and guilt creeping upon them as well. 

“Bright, you look terrible.” Dani was the first to break the silence, trying to sound like her old self. 

He gave her a wide smile, "Well, I _feel_ terrible.” 

“We’re so glad you’re Ok, man!” JT remarked, “you gave us all a fright for a second there.”

The paramedics were helping him on the stretcher, and the effort to stand and move was already making him dizzy. _Okay... He definitely needed to go to the hospital_.

"Don't worry, Jamie! I'm fine!"

"Hold this, Mr. Bright." he heard as one of the paramedics put a mask over his face, and he felt himself relax as the fresh oxygen filled his abused lungs. 

"Nice try…" he heard JT saying, but his head was suddenly so heavy. 

_Oh, this mask must be supplying some sort of sedative too…_

There were more voices around him, talking. Gil’s voice and Dani’s and JT’s. Fragments of the conversation penetrated his mind as the medics were prepping him to leave.

_More_

_Ground_

_Buried Body_

_Search_

"G-Gil.." he managed to remove the mask from his face and put up a hand to tug at his sleeve, "Gil…"

"Mr. Bright, please.." the woman was saying reproachfully. 

"Wait... kid, what is it?" Gil asked him, voice full of concern.

He closed his eyes and tried to recollect his thoughts, fight against the sedatives. This was important! Gil and the others needed to know. He opened his eyes and forced them to focus on Gil. 

“There are five more buried. A-and his wife and her lover too.”

“Jesus…”

“ _Find them, Gil_ … b-bring them home.” 

* * *

When his room's door opened, and Gil came in, Malcolm instantly made a face. Gil was still in the same outfit he wore when he rescued him. It was covered in dirt and blood and creased all over. Much like his clothes, his hair wasn't in a better state. 

“Gil!” he glared at him, “I told you to go home and get some rest!”

“That’s rich coming from you, kid,” Gil joked, “how are you feeling?”

"Would you believe me if I said great?" he snickered, and Gil chuckled.

"No. No, I wouldn't …" he took a seat next to his bed and sank in it. 

“Did you find them? the rest of Jason’s victims?”

“Jason?”

Malcolm shrugged, "I needed to give him a name, and he wouldn't give me any."

"His name was David Paxson. We managed to find four of the victims, but the CSU is still working on it."

Malcolm fiddled with the bed covers, refusing to meet Gil's eyes, "He has… records, and photos… Maybe they will help identify the victims?" 

Among these pictures was one that belonged to him. Paxson’s sixth victim, bound and helpless, crying and pathetic, the three letters just freshly burned on his skin, red and glowing. Malcolm didn’t want anyone to see it, yet he knew that they would. 

"His victims were all males so far, same age, and built. Same hair color and skin tone…. As yours. So far, we are going with your theory that…."

The other pictures will help them identify the victims, along with the notebook where he kept their names, ages, and all the additional information he extracted from Malcolm when he was half-buried. 

“Malcolm?”

He perked and looked at Gil's concerned face. He got lost in his mind and forgot that Gil had been talking to him about Jas- David Paxson's profile and how he managed to kidnap those victims. 

A thought crossed his mind. 

"How did you find me, Gil? How did you even know I went missing," he asked. 

The lieutenant bit his lips sheepishly, and he was now the one avoiding Malcolm's gaze. _There was something there._

“What aren’t you telling me?” he squinted.

Gil shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and blurted a confession, “It’s your mother. She… umm. She hired a private investigator to follow you around.”

“She did _WHAT_?” 

"I know… I know. A bit extreme, even for Jessica Whitly, but she was worried about you, kid. Especially after that incident with Watkins. I warned her that you will not be happy, but…"

“Wait! You _knew_ ? Humph. _Of course, you did_!”

Gil said nothing and just bowed his head guiltily.

Malcolm sighed, "Well, I suppose I shouldn't be too mad about it." he reasoned, "I mean, I would've died..."

“Yeah… he followed you until you were taken. But he wouldn’t engage with the guy.” Gil scoffed.

“Something about _it not being on his contract_? Jessica almost killed him. So did I! Anyway, he at least noted down the car's license plate and model and contacted me soon afterward. You were lucky. We wouldn't have found you in time if it weren't for him. We barely managed to, even with his help…" his voice broke. 

Malcolm looked at Gil, the tears brimming in his eyes, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt. He extended his bandaged hands towards him and called. Gil looked up and managed a small smile when he saw Malcolm's outstretched arms. He rubbed his eyes, got up, walked to his bed, and hugged him.

"I'm here now," Malcolm assured him, "and soon, I'll be driving you crazy as usual. That list on your desk is still half empty. We need to fill that!" 

“ _Half empty?…_ Bright! we _are_ on page FOUR!” 

Malcolm laughed mischievously, but then he winced, and his laughs turned into a fit of coughing. Gil backed away to give him space, “Where does it hurt? Talk to me.” 

"Honestly? Everywhere," he smiled sadly, "I really thought this was it, Gil. Thank you.. for saving me."

“Anytime, kid.”

"And for always being there." 

Gil's hands rubbed the back of his neck, and Malcolm leaned in and rested his head on the lieutenant's chest. Gil held him and squeezed his arm, "it's over now. You can rest. It's over."

* * *

Malcolm couldn’t sleep. He tried and tried and tried and tossed and turned then gave up. It was one of those nights where sleep just wouldn’t come. So he put on his shoes, took his phone and keys, and …. _no..no..nononono he can’t go out._

He lay there, panting on his bed, uncertain what to do for a while before he got up again. 

He walked over to Sunshine’s cage and observed her sleeping peacefully. Her feathers rising and falling with her every breath. He smiled as he looked at her, _his beautiful Sunshine._

"Looks like you won't freak out by my night terrors and screams tonight, Sunshine. At least one of us will get their rest," he whispered. 

Malcolm made his way to his kitchen's island, grabbed a few licorice sticks, and munched them absentmindedly. 

He had been lying to everyone, telling them he was okay, that things were fine. 

But they weren’t. 

And at nights like these, things were worse. Nights, when he wouldn’t sleep, brought back the memories of when he was taken.

Nights like these were the hardest to get by. 

Because all he could hear was the flickering of flames, the clinking of chains, and his screams and cries.

Because all could he feel was the lack of air, the burn of icy water in his lungs, and his ribs being crushed as he was being brought back to life.

Because all he could see was a sneering mocking monster, burning letters on his chest, throwing dirt on his face, enjoying his begging and cries. 

Because nights like these filled him with fear and dread. Nights like these left him trembling, made him feel lonely, vulnerable, and abandoned. 

Nights like these were unbearable.

Malcolm's shaky hands reached for his phone. He found the number he wanted, and before dialing it, he quickly changed his mind.

 _What if he’s asleep?_ So, instead, he decided to send a text. 

_[Gil, are you awake?]_

….

A minute passed then he heard a beep. He checked his phone.

_[Yes, kid. Can’t sleep?]_

_[no…]_

_[Want me to come over?]_

….

_[No, It’s fine. Just checking on you..]_

_[Bright, I’m coming!]_

…

…

…

_[Thank you :) ]_

_[I’ll stop and get something sweet on the way, anything you’re craving?]_

_[actuallyyy… Cheesecake? :)]_

_[:thumbs up:]_

Malcolm made his way to the sofa, sank in it, and sighed in relief. 

He won’t be alone tonight. Gil was coming. 

Nights like these were not the best types of nights. And he was not okay. Maybe he will be soon, maybe it will take time. _No one knows_. 

Nights like these were unbareable... but with Gil around, things were a hundred times better….

  
  


_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS WE ARE GETTING SEASON TWO!!!!! I was so happy so I finished this up earlier than I planned! :D
> 
> Once again, special thanks to the amazing people at discord! without you, this fic wouldn't have been born :) <33
> 
> To my amazing readers, I hope you enjoyed the ride with me on this one! <3 Thanks for your comments and support, they always made my day :) <3333
> 
> See you on my next adventure!


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